Insight
by lowrider1213
Summary: There was a chorus of snickers from the unaffected members of the team, and he turned his head to glare at the normally stoic profiler who now wore the faintest traces of a smirk on his lips. "And this, Aaron, is why the next time you feel the need to interrupt my Friday night with a call to arms, I'll be taking a sick day." A series of unrelated snapshots.
1. Misuse

Misuse

He'd had a late meeting that couldn't be rescheduled, and he'd forgotten that Jessica was going out tonight. Of course, when she'd suddenly appeared in front of him promptly at 6 with Jack in tow, he'd remembered that she'd told him about her date a week ago, and he couldn't very well say no to her now. It was sheer luck that Morgan and Prentiss had been held up after the class that they were teaching at the Academy; they were just coming in as he was preparing to take Jack to the meeting with him. She'd taken one look at the sandy haired boy and reached out a hand for him, promising stories and candy, and he'd been so relieved that he wouldn't have to drag his boy to what was sure to be a long and boring meeting that he'd handed her a twenty from his wallet and told her to go nuts – snacks were on him.

It was hours later that he'd managed to get away. Jack's bedtime had come and gone, and he'd expected the small boy to have fallen asleep somewhere, so the laughter floating down the hallway toward him caught him by surprise.

Laughter was not something often heard in this building.

As he rounded the final corner that led to his office, his surprise morphed into something else entirely, and he stopped for a moment, afraid that the slightest sound from him would spoil the scene in front of him. And he wasn't sure how he was going to explain this misuse of government resources at his next budget meeting, but as he looked down into the bullpen and saw two of his agents helping his four-year-old son to cover Reid's desk in the fluorescent squares of paper stolen from the supply cabinet, the three of them trying and failing to stifle the giggles that were threatening to bubble out of their chests, his budget meeting didn't seem so important.


	2. Cure

Cure

As old as he was, and as many things as he'd seen, if you'd asked him right now, he would tell you that this is the single most unexplainable and hilarious sight he'd ever laid eyes on. Dave knew, though, that the fun would come to an end sometime, and so while they waited for the confirmation that the jet was ready to take them to Cincinnati, he quietly slipped out.

He had an errand that couldn't wait.

And forty-five minutes later, as they entered their thirteenth minute of listening to Reid and Morgan argue back and forth in a fight that not even Hotch, with his many glares, could put a stop to, he thought that this might've been the most important errand that he'd ever run, above even that time that he'd forgotten his second wife's birthday until he'd overheard her phone conversation with her mother and run out to grab a bottle of wine and four dozen roses.

Rolling his eyes as the barbs continued to be thrown across from him, he stood from his seat and made his way to the kitchenette at the end of the plane. Reaching into the cupboard where he'd stashed his purchases, he quickly set about chopping and blending, and a moment later he emerged with two plastic cups full of the nastiest smelling liquid ever allowed passage on this fine aircraft.

Returning to his seat, he pushed the cups across to the scowling younger men, the two of them looking every part the middle school rivals they were acting like.

He shot them a look that left no room for interpretation and barked,

"Shut the hell up and drink this, the both of you."

Their grumbles morphed into gags as they forced the concoction down their throats, a disgusted "What the hell is in this" following a moment later.

"Tomato juice, diced onions, some pickles, a banana, white vinegar, and just a touch of garlic. Best hangover cure this side of the Potomac. It's been passed down in my family for generations. Tastes like death. Works like a charm."

There was a chorus of snickers from the unaffected members of the team, and he turned his head to glare at the normally stoic profiler who now wore the faintest traces of a smirk on his lips.

"And this, Aaron, is why the next time you feel the need to interrupt my Friday night with a call to arms, I'll be taking a sick day."


	3. Hall

Hall

There had been two locations to cover, so they'd been forced to split up, and all he could think about as he drove the SUV containing himself and Prentiss to the abandoned school that they equally hoped did and didn't hold their unsub was that the last time they'd split up, they'd very nearly come home as five instead of six.

He'd driven them off anyway.

But they'd had to split up once more, when they'd reached the old, dilapidated building. The school was just too large, it would've taken too long if they'd stayed together. So he took the west wing, and she took the east, and they'd stayed in constant contact over the headsets, and they'd almost finished, they were working their way back toward each other down the last hallway when he thought he'd heard a noise in the room to the right of him.

It had turned out to be papers, blowing in the breeze let in through a window that was broken in the corner.

The yell that came from where she was supposed to be, though, _that_ certainly wasn't caused by any breeze.

But he'd only been at the other end of the hall, and she was right there.

He could _see_ her, or he could've, at least.

If he'd been looking at her.

But he'd been distracted by those _damn_ papers.

Cursing himself, he whipped around so quickly his shoes slipped on the wet linoleum and he nearly fell to the ground – only his iron-clad self-control kept him on his feet. It wouldn't've really mattered if he'd fallen, though. It had only taken him seconds to return to where she had been standing, but seconds were too long, because the only thing he found where she should've been was her weapon and a couple of drops of sticky blood.


	4. Inflame

Inflame

It took every piece of training that his years as a lawyer had given him to not show his surprise when he looked up from the file he'd been reviewing to see Emily frog-marching Reid and Morgan into his office by their ears, a look of murder on her face. Sighing quietly, he resigned himself to whatever the next few minutes would bring, placing his pen down on the desktop and folding his hands in front of him before looking at her with a carefully impassive expression firmly cemented on his face.

"Is there something I can help you with, Prentiss?"

Her eyes flashed dark and dangerous, and if he hadn't been sitting, he was sure that he wouldn't've been able to resist the overwhelming urge to take a step away from her rage.

"As a matter of fact, there is."

He could see her grip on the boys' ears tighten and fought a wince on their behalf, knowing from experience that any sympathy for them would immediately place him in the middle of her warpath.

And if there was one thing he was certain of, it was that he, under absolutely no circumstances, wanted to be on the wrong side of an angry, armed woman.

Particularly _this_ angry, armed woman.

"And what might that be?"

If it was possible, her fingers clamped even more tightly around his agents' earlobes. With her jaw locked shut she bit out,

"I'm sure _they_ can help you figure it out, sir."

With one last hard squeeze to her teammates' tender flesh, she spun on her heel and stalked out of the room, snapping the door shut behind her.

Warily, he looked at the younger men standing before him clutching their swollen cartilages, their matching fire-engine-red ears a testament to just how upset Emily really had been.

When they both opened their mouths to speak at the same time, he held up a hand. Shooting them a look they knew well, he posed a single question to the nervous pair.

"Tell me first, will I be receiving a phone call about whatever incident you two are about to disclose to me?"

Three sets of eyes shot to the telephone sitting on the corner of his desk as it started to ring.

"Yeah, Hotch," Morgan cringed, "I'd say that's a pretty safe bet."


	5. Request

Request

"…were not his mother. 'I have a mother,' said the baby bird. 'I know I do. I will find her. I will. I WILL!'"

Emily's soft voice floated out of the crack in the doorway and swirled around him, evoking a soft smile from the normally severe man.

It didn't matter how many times he'd heard her, it still made his heart swell with unspeakable love when he caught her reading to Jack, or singing to Jack, or laughing, or playing, or just being with Jack.

They were his two favorite people, the individuals around whom his whole world revolved.

He was seconds away from joining them on his son's tiny bed when he heard a question that made his heart stop in his chest.

"Emmy?"

"Yes, baby."

"What if his mommy is gone?"

His hand froze on the doorknob, and he could almost see the expression on Emily's face as she searched for the words that would soothe the broken-hearted little boy.

"Well, sometimes that happens, Jack. But even if he can't find her, his mommy is still there, and she will always love him, because that's just what mommies do."

"But who will be his mommy if she's gone?" The tears he could hear in his son's voice caused his own throat to burn. Guilt crashed over him, very nearly bringing him to his knees, and he knew where this conversation was headed.

Admittedly, he didn't think that their big talk would be had over Dr. Seuss while he hid in the hallway.

"He has the cow, and the dog, and the kitten, and the hen, remember?"

"But they're not his mommy."

"No, but they can feed him, and keep him clean, and safe, and warm. They can love him, like his mommy does."

"And he loves them too? Like he loves his mommy?"

"He could, yeah." Her voice was clear and strong, but he was sure that if he dared to look, he would see his own pain mirrored in her eyes, mixed with apprehension and the love he knew she felt towards the small boy cuddled next to her.

"But won't that make his mommy sad?"

There it was. He wasn't sure that anything could be as distressing as his son's tears, but the earnestness with which the six-year-old asked the question caused the dam holding back his sorrow to fail and leave wet tracks burning down his cheeks.

"No, baby. His mommy would be happy that he'd found someone to love him and take care of him the way she would've if she'd been able to." Her voice was thick with grief, and he could've laughed at the absurdity that the three of them were weeping over Dr. Seuss if not for the misery pouring out of him in fat droplets.

But, then, they weren't really talking about Dr. Seuss at all, were they.

"Oh. Emmy?"

"Yes, baby?"

"Would they be his new mommy?"

"He already has a mommy, baby, and they wouldn't ever be able to take her place. They wouldn't want to. But they could be another mommy."

"So, he could have two?"

"If he wanted, he could have two."

"Emmy?"

The first-grader's tone changed just slightly; to anyone else, his question would've sounded the same, but Hotch knew his boy better than anything and immediately heard the difference, knew that they were about to reach the crux of this whole conversation, and he knew that Emily'd heard it too when she responded with a much more serious,

"Yes, Jack?"

"Would you be my 'nother mommy?"

Time seemed to stand still as he waited for her answer, anxiety tying him up in knots even though he knew what her answer would be.

She loved his, _their_ boy.

Always had.

Always would.

He heard a soft shuffling, and then,

"Jack, I would be honored to be your 'nother mommy."

Unable to stay closed off from his family a second more, he creaked open the door and cautiously peeked his head around the corner, softly smiling when he spotted them teary-eyed and curled together on top of Jack's racecar sheets, the book forgotten in her lap.

"Hey."

"Hi daddy."

"What's going on in here?"

"Emmy said she'd be my 'nother mommy."

"She did?"

His query was met by an enthusiastic nod of a sandy head and a watery smile from his dark-haired love.

A moment later, the silence of the room was broken.

"Mommy?"

"Yeah, baby."

"What happens next?"

She took the book that he was pushing into her hands and cleared her throat. Turning the page, she fell back into the rhythm of one Theodor Seuss Geisel, and he sank onto the floor by the bed and allowed her voice to carry him away.

"Just then the baby bird saw a big thing…"


	6. Cover

Cover

It had become a sort of ritual for them; only used after the most heinous of cases.

The first time, they had just wrapped up a series of child murders – the last boy dying just minutes before they'd arrived.

He was still warm when they'd shown up, and she'd been convinced that they could save him.

He'd known that they were too late, but had let her try anyway.

And she'd broken every rib in his four-and-three-quarters-year-old chest with her compressions, had tried to blow life into his blue lips until he'd thought that she would pass out.

Had only stopped when he'd physically pulled her away.

She'd been desperate to save just one child – just one, she didn't think that was too much to ask.

But there was no one left to save.

In her desperation, though, she'd allowed herself to get too close. She'd made it personal.

And Emily didn't have the same defenses that Agent Prentiss did.

By the time he'd gotten her back into the SUV and driven them to pick up Reid and JJ from the station, she'd retreated completely into herself.

She hadn't gotten any better at the hotel.

But, then, none of them had gotten any better at the hotel.

And so he'd done the only thing that he could think to do; he'd pulled all of them into his room, and had given his team the pep talk of the century.

Even now, he couldn't remember what he'd said.

Just that it hadn't worked.

And they'd sat in silence for a while until someone, he wasn't sure who, had turned on the television.

Peter Pan was playing.

It turned out that the children's movie was exactly what they all needed, and by the time the credits were rolling across the screen, all of the blankets had been pulled off of his bed, and the six of them were huddled together on the floor, the colors from the LED screen casting them all in blues and greens as the pirate ship made of clouds floated off into the night sky.

And they'd been better, all of them, but they weren't in any hurry to go back to their lonely, impersonal hotel rooms, and so they'd all stayed as the next movie came on, and the next one, and the one after that, and by the time they'd gotten on the plane at 7:30 the next morning, they were joking, and laughing, and exhausted, yes, but above all else, they were ok.

Not great.

But ok.

And that was enough.

And a few months later, they'd had another exceptionally bad case, this time accompanied by a very close call.

He'd almost had his head blown off.

They'd shown up at his door in their pajamas, and wrapped themselves in his comforter on the floor, and watched the Toy Story trilogy until they all fell asleep in a heap on the faded carpet. And it didn't make everything better, but then, he wasn't sure anything could make everything better. It helped, though, and they'd take all the help they could get.

After that, it was just understood. And they'd each started keeping DVDs in their ready bags – just in case.

He'd lost track of how many times they'd ended up in front of the television over the years. He was sure, at this point, that he'd seen every Disney and Pixar movie ever made, but that didn't matter.

Because on those worst days, they latched onto whatever happiness and innocence they could find, they held it tight, lest it slip away and leave them as they were on that first night.

Which is how he now found himself once more on the floor in his hotel room, huddled under his comforter with six of the most hardcore, capable, brilliant people he'd ever had the pleasure to meet, watching with rapt attention as Gaston prepared to storm the castle.

The knock on the door startled all of them.

Garcia reached for the remote to pause the DVD, and he rose from his spot between Prentiss and Dave to pull it open, revealing his Section Chief on the other side.

He took in her rumpled clothing and puffy face, her red eyes telling him immediately what she'd been doing before showing up on his doorstep.

And though he had a reputation as a hardass, he wasn't heartless.

He couldn't leave her there, no matter how much she might deserve it.

So he opened the door a little wider and stepped aside so that she could enter.

"Would you care to join us for a movie, Ma'am?"


	7. Dramatic

Dramatic

She'd always had a flair for the dramatic – he'd known that before he'd even hired her, with her resume printed on handmade, pink, scented paper. This time, however, she'd gone too far. He sighed.

"Penelope…" he started.

"Sir, I think it goes without saying that these were clearly unintended consequences. However, in my defense, you never said that we couldn't have a casual dress day, and how was I supposed to know…"

"Penelope."

The nervous blonde's mouth snapped shut as she nearly trembled in front of him.

"I don't care how this situation came about. It reflects poorly on the Bureau, this unit, yourself, and by extension me, as your supervisor. Now, you will apologize to the General, for making a mockery of his meeting, and to Anderson, for this gross invasion of his personal privacy. Then you will personally find something more suitable for Anderson to wear. When you're finished with that, you will return to your office, and you will stay there until the end of the day. Do I make myself clear?"

She stared at the floor and let out a mumbled, "Yes, sir" before turning to leave. Before she'd made it to the door, he called out to her one more time.

"And Penelope," she looked back at him.

"I trust we will never have to have this discussion again."

She nodded sharply and all but ran from the room, the door swinging closed behind her as she scrambled down the stairs.

He followed her with his eyes through the window as she walked over, first to the General and then to Anderson, and had to stifle a laugh as his gaze came to rest on the unfortunate man.

He really should've known better.

But it was her own fault she'd gotten in trouble. If she'd only checked the schedule for presentations beforehand, if she'd done it on a day when one of the most high-ranking army officials in Virginia wasn't visiting the unit, he wouldn't've said anything to her.

But, then, she always did have a flair for the dramatic.


	8. Mammoth

**A/N: Sorry about the long update wait. I was without internet access. I will try to update twice a day until we are back on track. **

Mammoth

She knew that things had been going too well. They were in the middle of a four-hour hike up Mammoth Mountain in California, to a crime scene only accessible by foot, on the hottest day that summer had seen this year, and there hadn't been one mishap in the entire 132 minutes that they'd been walking.

Of course, as soon as the thought had crossed her mind, Spencer had tripped over a tree root and fallen flat on his face a hand's width from a pile of fresh bear scat, in the process letting out the girliest scream she'd heard pass a grown man's lips since February when they'd stormed a house in Ozark and accidentally broken the nose off of one of the unsub's stuffed victims.

This scream, however, made her cringe for a completely different reason, and she quickly turned pleading eyes to Morgan, begging him for the sake of all of them and the remaining 108 minutes that they had to walk this damned trail together that he let it go.

He did not.

And where her eyes were pleading, his were dancing with mirth.

She knew where this was headed.

Morgan sauntered over to where Reid was still sprawled on the dirt and pulled him to his feet in one swift movement. Opening his mouth, he was no doubt about to begin what was sure to be a long and merciless mocking of the genius's grace, or lack thereof, when he was cut off.

"Shut up."

Morgan's mouth snapped shut, but the cocky expression was still firmly planted on his face.

"I didn't say anything, Pretty Boy!" He taunted.

"I don't care, shut up!"

"No, you shut up!"

"No, you –"

"Both of you shut up!" The arguing agents' eyes flickered to the stern man.

"But Hotch," Morgan whined in an effort to pull the dark-haired profiler onto his side, "I didn't even say anything!"

"You were about to!" His frustration at the situation mounting, Reid stamped his foot, causing a plume of dirt to erupt into the air which only increased his resemblance to the petulant child he was acting like.

"But I didn't!"

"Yeah, but –"

"Reid, let it go, please."

"– you were about to!"

"You can't prove that!"

"Morgan, cut it out!"

"You had that look on your face!"

"So?"

"Historically, that look has been followed by hours of teasing and taunting!"

"Reid, I said stop it!"

"You can't prove that!"

"I can too!"

"Well, let's see you try!"

"Morgan, stop goading him!"

"Alright," the slender young profiler pulled his cell phone from his pocket with a flourish, "I'll just call –"

"ENOUGH!" Three heads swiveled to stare at the livid woman standing with her hands on her hips fifteen feet up the trailhead.

"You're acting like schoolboys, all three of you! Reid," she turned angry eyes to look at him, "you know he's just teasing you. Morgan," her glare landed on the dark man, "enough is enough. And you!" Her eyes narrowed at the stoic profiler who at least had the decency to look remorseful.

"You know better than to allow yourself to get sucked into one of their spats. Now, let's get a move-on. I don't want to be stuck walking back to the Suburban in the dark."

She spun on her heel and started walking again, the three thoroughly chastised agents following quickly behind her. A few yards later, Hotch was back side-by-side with her, a small grin pulling at his lips.

"You know," he started, "you should try that hands-on-hips move in your next interrogation. It gives you a very 'stern teacher' look…"

"Shut up!"


	9. Have

Have

The snickering had been going on for the past nine minutes – really, since he'd set foot in the conference room.

He'd tried no less than four times to regain control of the group.

They'd only choked harder on their laughter.

Dave actually had tears in his eyes.

And as he stood in front of the round table staring at the six people colored in various shades of amusement with mixed levels of composure, he could feel his temper flare.

He knew that it showed on his face, too, by the way four of the six immediately cast their eyes back to what was supposed to be a professional briefing of the case they were due to fly to in forty-five minutes.

Rossi, of course, brushed off his glare with a smug look of his own, and Emily – well, he wasn't quite sure when exactly she had grown immune to his more _creative_ managerial methods.

Apparently, that day had come and gone, though.

And if at all possible, his attempt at steering them all back to their _jobs_ had made her laugh harder.

Still, though, he'd like to finish this briefing with as much of his dignity intact as was possible, so he sent one more glare around the table to smother any remaining fingers of mirth that had tried to creep out, staring down Dave until the older man turned his attention back to the file in front of him.

By the grace of God, Emily managed to get herself under control, and then they were once again off and running through the murders in Detroit.

* * *

"Alright. Wheels up in thirty."

"Whatever you say, Hotch."

And with that, the five snickering adults left the conference room, flooding into the hallway where he could hear them burst into laughter that followed them down the stairs and into the bullpen.

He turned incredulously to the only one left in the conference room with him, her own choked-back amusement not going unnoticed by him.

"What the hell is everybody's problem today? Do I have toilet paper stuck to my shoe? Did I miss a button on my shirt? What?!"

"You have something on your face, sir." Prentiss's lip quivered.

She reached out a hand and swiped at the corner of his mouth with her thumb, her eyes dancing with unshared laughter. She bit her lip as she showed him the pad of her finger, and his expression narrowed in response.

His eyes flickered from the splotch of red lipstick staining her thumb to the matching shade coloring her lips, and couldn't help the smirk that crept across his face.

"Well, I guess the cat's out of the bag now."


	10. Ablaze

Ablaze

They were searching for a five-year old girl who'd gone missing from a campground in Northern California.

She'd been gone for thirty-six hours.

They'd been going non-stop since their call-in at hour two.

He'd pulled in the cadaver dogs four hours ago.

He'd be damned if they left without finding her, though.

She was somewhere in the park, he could _feel_ it in his _bones_, and he was going to bring her home.

Which is why he was now somewhere in the middle of Klamath National Forest, running on bad coffee and six hours of three-day-old sleep, poking at piles of fallen autumn leaves with a stick.

And if his team had been anyone else, they would've probably called it quits by now, at least for the day. They needed to sleep and eat, and he _knew_ that, knew that they would be fully within their rights to demand an eight-hour break before starting up again.

At this point, the chances that it would make a difference in the end result were slim.

But his team wasn't anyone else, and they were the best for a reason.

They were no more likely to leave right now than he was.

And as he glanced to his left, and then to his right, and saw the five most incredible people poking at their own leaf piles with their own sticks, he felt a surge of gratitude and pride.

He really didn't know what he'd do without them.

* * *

The smoke had come up out of nowhere.

One minute the sky was a sparkling cerulean, and the next, a swirling mass of grey.

And before they could do more than wonder at the sudden shift, they saw the massive wall of orange that was headed straight for them.

The head ranger pushed them towards the east, said that flames always raced down this hillside on the western face.

He'd failed to take into account the wind, blowing at their backs as they fled the flames.

And then suddenly, the orange wall that had been behind them was all around them instead, stretching on for miles in every direction and closing in on them on all sides.

He always did think he'd go down in a blaze of glory.

Admittedly, a literal forest fire hadn't been what he'd pictured.

But then, life had a funny way of throwing curveballs.

And as he looked around at his team, and saw the same resignation plastered on their faces, it hit him that they wouldn't be getting out of this one.

So while the rangers raced frantically to try to save them all from the hungry flames, he walked over to where his agents were standing and shook each of their hands, told them how honored he was to have been able to work with them all of these years, and sat next to them on the ground to await their fate.

And though he was staring death in the face, it was the most peaceful he'd felt in quite a long time.

Later, when the last hot fingers had been doused and the decimation had been catalogued, they would determine that a carelessly tossed cigarette nine miles to the north had started the blaze in the dry brush covering the ground. In looking for the ignition source, firefighters would stumble upon the charred remains of a five-year-old little girl, missing for thirty-nine hours.

They would find, too, the remains of the search party that had been trying to find her, among them six Federal Agents, their badges grasped tightly in their hands, the shiny metal of the shields melted from the heat.

Now, though, as the smoke swirled thicker around him, he would breathe deeply and think of Jack.


	11. Damp

Damp

The very second the door to the station had opened, Dave had heard them.

Hell, he was pretty sure the LEOs two towns over had heard them, they were arguing so loudly.

And, while curious, David Rossi was not a stupid man.

Nor was he suicidal.

So he did what any other person in his unique position would do – shamelessly eavesdropped.

Not that it was difficult by any means.

They'd just reached a decibel level that was prohibited under most city ordinances.

Still, though, he'd had enough ex-wives to know what would happen if he was caught listening to something that he shouldn't be listening to, so he made sure that he had a file in his hands before the two agents reached the back room that was serving as the BAU's home base.

It turns out, though, that he needn't have worried about being noticed listening.

The two were so entrenched in this latest battle of wills and words that the building could be burning down around them and they'd probably be oblivious. He huffed to himself as he tuned back in to their shouting match.

"He was SHOOTING at us, Prentiss! What did you want me to do?!"

Morgan's tone had a pleading quality to it, like he was desperately trying to make her see reason. Dave laughed to himself, Derek had about as much experience with women as he himself did; he should really know better than to argue with an angry woman.

And there was no doubt in his mind that Derek was indeed dealing with a _very_ angry woman.

"I KNOW that he was SHOOTING at us! I am PERFECTLY CAPABLE of avoiding being SHOT!"

"WELL EXCUSE ME FOR TRYING TO SAVE YOUR LIFE!"

"THE ONLY DANGER MY LIFE WAS IN WAS FROM THE MICROBES SWIRLING AROUND IN THE SEWER WATER!"

An involuntary wince crossed Dave's face as her statement made him look at the two for the first time. She wasn't just wet; she was _dripping_. Now having a pretty good idea as to what had instigated this particular disagreement, he chanced a quick glance at Morgan. The younger man cringed at her words, and for a split-second Dave thought he would apologize and they could all move on.

He shouldn't've been so naïve.

Just as quickly as the remorse had come, it was replaced with righteous indignation, and an even louder retort.

"THERE WERE BULLETS FLYING AND YOU WEREN'T MOVING OUT OF THE WAY!"

Prentiss took a step closer to him so that there was barely an inch of space separating them. A dangerous look flashed in her dark eyes as she spat her words at him.

"AND YET, I DIDN'T GET SHOT!"

Not to be outdone, Morgan leaned down so that they were face to face.

"YOU'RE WELCOME FOR THAT!"

"YOU DIDN'T DO ANYTHING!"

The door opened and Reid and Hotch filed in, stopping in their tracks to stare at the hostile agents.

"HE WAS AIMING RIGHT FOR YOU, EMILY!"

"I TOLD YOU I HAD HIM!"

Reid seemed to shrink at the anger coloring their words, muttering a "_This again?"_ before quietly exiting, no doubt to look for a safe place to hide out in until the argument blew over.

Rossi snuck a quick look at Hotch, who was still watching his agents, apparently, _surprisingly _ok to let this play out.

"NO, YOU _**HAD**_ A DEATH WISH! HE WAS GOING TO KILL YOU!"

"A DEATH WISH? I DO _**NOT**_HAVE A _DEATH WISH_! IF ANYONE HAS A PROBLEM, MORGAN, IT'S YOU, MR. HERO-COMPLEX! YOU JUST ALWAYS HAVE TO RUN OFF AND SAVE THE DAY, AND IT KILLS YOU TO THINK THAT I DIDN'T NEED, _OR WANT_, YOUR HELP!"

"THAT'S RICH COMING FROM THE WOMAN WHO ABANDONED US ALL SO SHE COULD CHASE AN IRISH ARMS DEALER!"

Hotch caught her curled fist just a second before it would've crashed against Morgan's jaw, and Dave honestly didn't know who of the four of them was more surprised at the turn this spat had taken.

The unit chief looked both of them in the eye.

"That's enough."

He turned to Dave, and the older man got the message loud and clear. Standing from his position at the table, he placed a hand on Derek's shoulder and steered him out of the room. Pushing him into one of the team's SUVs, he muttered something about needing to recheck a crime scene and drove them off, watching in the rearview mirror as Hotch steered the vehicle he'd pushed Prentiss into in the opposite direction.

* * *

Hours later, as he'd pulled into the hotel parking lot, he'd remembered that they'd left Reid at the station. Cursing to himself, he'd waited until he'd watched Derek enter his room before calling Hotch.

He heard the ring of the phone from behind Emily's door, and wondered if the damage done today was irreparable.

He guessed he'd find out tomorrow.

And when the stoic man confirmed that Dave was correct in thinking that Reid had been stranded alone at the police station for the previous five hours, he pushed himself off of the wall he'd been leaning against and went to make amends with the youngest member of his team.

* * *

It was not lost on him how the local LEOs all gave him a wide berth when he returned to collect Reid.

He sighed as he pictured all of the extra work that he'd have to do tomorrow to assure the officers that the team was still functional and capable of helping them solve this case.

He hoped like hell he wouldn't be lying.

Seeing Reid through the glass that looked into the back room, he slowly walked until he was standing directly in front of the genius, but he seemed not to notice him.

Dave turned his head until he saw what had captured Reid's attention so completely, sighing as he saw the barely darkened splotch of industrial carpeting that was still damp from where Emily had been standing that afternoon.

He hung his head for a moment before he straightened. Laying a hand on the young man's shoulder to catch his attention, he waited until their gazes locked.

"C'mon," he pulled the genius up from his chair. "There's nothing we can do about it tonight."

He started to lead him out of the room to drive them both back to get some sleep when Reid stopped him in his tracks.

"Can we do anything about it at all?"


	12. Discuss

Discuss

"Charlie?"

She glanced up from the book held in her lap to shoot him a hopeful look.

"Albright."

He sighed and rubbed his hands over his face. They'd been going back and forth like this for nearing on ninety minutes now, and the end was no closer now than it had been when they'd started. Still it needed to be done, so he buckled down and went back to the list on the LED screen in front of him.

"William?"

Her nose wrinkled and she shook her head.

"Gibson."

Not to be deterred, however, he sent out three more options in quick succession.

"Benjamin? Joseph? Isaac?"

"Atkins, Ball, and Wood."

She shot them down just as quickly. Without thinking, he offered the next one, cursing himself a moment later at the look that appeared on her face. 

"Daniel" 

Her mind immediately flashed to the Murphy family, and she couldn't hold in a grimace.

"No. How about Theo?"

"Durrant. Michael?"

"Gargiulo."

"Sam."

"Dieteman. Andrew?"

"Urdiales."

Both dark-haired profilers turned to see Dave leaning against the doorway. He sauntered in to sit in the visitor's chair next to Emily, noticing the drawn lines on Hotch's face and how she reached a hand to caress her swollen belly.

"I thought this was supposed to be the fun part." He grinned and leaned back, smirking as Hotch shot him a glare that surely would've killed him, had he that power.

"You try naming a baby! Everything we can think of is attached to a serial killer!"

"You named your son _Jack_. _Clearly _you weren't too concerned last time!"

Hotch nearly growled in response as Emily rolled her eyes.

"Gideon and I only went through American serial killers."

Dave's mouth fell open as the enormity of the words that were just spoken rolled over him.

"YOU MEAN TO TELL ME THAT YOU FORGOT ABOUT JACK THE RIPPER? JACK? THE _RIPPER_!?"

Hotch stood from behind his desk and clenched his fists, his chair rolling back to crash against the bookcase in his haste.

"I KNOW, OK! WHICH IS WHY _THIS TIME_ NO SUCH OVERSIGHTS WILL BE MADE!"

A knock on the open door pulled the men from their staring contest, and all three agents glanced over to find a very amused Morgan and slightly anxious Reid standing on the catwalk.

"Do you need something?"

Derek grinned at his unit chief.

"Nah, man. Just wondering if this is an open invite party or if I need to be upset that my 'save the date' didn't come in the mail."

Emily pushed herself up from her chair and crossed the room to pull the boys into the room by their shirts.

"Just get in here."

Turning to the men who had returned to glaring at each other, she pushed Dave into his chair and sent Hotch a look that had him sinking back into his own black leather seat.

"Now then, what about Nate?"

A unison call of "White" sounded around her, and she sighed.

"Hold on. Before we go any further, let me call Garcia."

Morgan pulled out his cell phone to shoot a quick text, adding JJ to it at the last second.

When the women showed up a few minutes later, it was to four arguing men standing in the middle of the room and a very tired looking Emily resting on the couch in the back. They made their way over and sank down on the plush leather next to her, the three of them watching their male counterparts warily as the intensity of their arguing increased.

"What's going on?"

"We're naming the baby."

JJ's mouth found a perfect 'Oh' as she immediately recognized the issue, while Garcia just looked between Emily and the quartet of incensed men.

"What's the problem with that?"

Emily softly patted her leg as she replied, "There's a killer for every name."

The three women returned to watching the argument occurring in front of them in time to hear Reid offer out,

"What about Liam?"

All six pairs of eyes turned to stare at him as he shifted from foot to foot. Hotch blinked and seemed to return to himself, dismissing the name with a firm, "Too Irish."

Wanting to break the silence that had overtaken the room, Dave glanced at the clock and turned to his longtime friend.

"Isn't it time to get Jack soon?"

Emily slowly rose from her position on the couch.

"I'll get him."

Hotch nodded at her and turned back to the group.

"What about Anthony?"

Derek's exasperated sigh of "Kirkland" followed her out the door.

The heated discussion hadn't cooled any by the time she'd returned from Jessica's house. Sighing to herself, she led Jack up the stairs to his father's office, pushing open the now closed door and walking with him to the back couch where JJ and Garcia were still sitting.

"Any progress?"

Both blondes shook their heads.

Feeling a soft tug on her hand, she looked down to see Jack's face furrowed in confusion.

"Mommy, what are they doing?"

"They're talking about what to name the baby."

"Why?"

"Well, the baby has to have a name, Jack. We can't just call him 'Baby', right?"

"No, why're they talking about it? He already has a name."

Seven pairs of eyes swiveled to look at the sandy-haired five-year-old, and the room fell silent.

"He does?" She asked the little boy.

He nodded his head.

"Yep."

"What is it?"

"His name is Noah."

The agents looked at each other, running the name over and over in their minds and coming up blank. Unexpected tears sprung to her eyes at the realization that their son had found the perfect name. She reached out a soft hand to stroke his chubby cheek and placed a tender kiss to his forehead.

"You're right, baby. His name is Noah."


	13. Illustrate

Illustrate

Jessica'd had a work trip, a chance for her to showcase her abilities in front of her boss's boss's boss, and he couldn't ask her to sacrifice moving forward in her career.

Not when his son was monopolizing all of her personal time as well.

And the team was due for a break from the field – they'd just come back from three brutal back-to-back cases, and their paperwork had reached Mount Everest-esque levels a week ago.

Besides, he missed spending time with his boy.

So when Monday morning came around, he'd grabbed his briefcase in one hand and his Captain-America-wearing world in the other and walked with an extra skip in his step into his office.

And by mid-afternoon, when he'd made it through half of the files on his desk and Jack was giggling on the floor with Morgan and Prentiss, he was thinking that he should really do this more often.

He'd forgotten, though, how unpredictable his job was.

The harsh reminder came at 6:30, right as he was getting ready to walk out the door. A desperate plea from the Manchester police department and a body count in the double digits put his plans for pizza and a Disney feature film on hold.

He'd had his phone in his hand before he'd remembered that Jessica wasn't available.

It was Garcia who'd stepped in. She'd offered to keep his boy, and there really wasn't another option.

Outside of Jessica, only the team had ever been trusted with Jack.

So it was with a stern, "No presents, no candy, no late movies" that he'd kissed his son on his tiny head and handed him over to the bubbly tech.

He'd known even then that his words would be forgotten as soon as the jet left the tarmac.

He couldn't find it in himself to be too angry though – really, he was just glad that Jack had people to buy him presents and candy and stay up late watching movies with.

He wasn't as pleased when he came back to a five-year-old riding a sugar high nine days later.

It took him ages to get Jack to bed, so he was dragging when he slumped into the briefing the next morning after dropping his boy at his aunt's house.

They all were.

So it was with a silent sigh that he flipped open the case file sitting on the table in front of him.

A moment later, a rare smile graced his face as he pulled out a sheet of paper covered in his son's crayon masterpiece. He looked up from the waxy rendition of a dark-haired father and his sandy-haired son to see his team in various states of teary-eyed holding their own Crayola creations a pulled out his phone.

"Is he there?"

Putting the call on speaker, he felt calmness settle over him as his son's happy voice floated into the air.

"Hey buddy, I just got your picture!"


	14. Guitar

Guitar

Team night had been something Gideon had started, funnily enough.

Back before he lost Sarah and his soul to the job.

Before Elle.

Before Boston.

It had been a way for them to connect beyond the Bureau, to support themselves and each other.

To regain the pieces of their humanity that the job stole.

At least, as many as they could get back.

And when Gideon had started his slow death in Massachusetts, Hotch had taken over.

In the beginning, it had been okay.

They'd gotten together every couple of months, sometimes at a bar, sometimes at one of their homes.

Once at a bowling alley, but Morgan was such a poor loser that they would never be doing that again.

And they had laughed together, and it was good.

But then Jack was born, and he needed to go home every night. Still, he'd managed to pull the team together a few times a year, and it wasn't enough, but it was something.

After his divorce, he'd gotten a little better. The girls had cut back to fifty percent of the coercion previously needed to drag him out from his office and endless stacks of paperwork.

When Foyet had happened, though, he'd stopped going out altogether.

He had a murderer to catch and his family to get back; he had no time to waste on 'lightening the mood'.

And then Haley had died, and suddenly his whole world had changed.

He could quite honestly say now that he couldn't remember the last time he'd gone out with the team.

So the knock that sounded promptly at 6:30 as the Hotchner men were finishing a dinner of SpongeBob-shaped Mac'n'Cheese caught him completely off guard. He chewed his mouthful of pasta slowly as he made his way to the door, trying to think of a reason why anyone would stop by at this time in the evening, but he couldn't come up with any. Glancing through the peephole, he was surprised to see all six members of his team, plus Will and Henry, standing in the hallway.

He pulled open the door, and his confusion mounted when he noticed that Morgan was holding what appeared to be an Xbox, and Reid had four plastic guitars. They filed past him into the living room and the boys immediately set to work connecting the gaming system to his television, the rest of the team making their way into the kitchen to set down their various containers of snacks – he noted absently the amount of food that they had brought and concluded that Garcia must've been in charge of the refreshments.

He stood numbly by the door and watched as his team made themselves at home in his apartment, Prentiss coming out of the kitchen a moment later with a laughing Jack in her arms. He smiled softly as she turned him upside down and tickled his exposed belly before setting him back on the ground and sending him off to "Get the good guitar". She came to stand beside him, mirroring his pose as she crossed her arms and looked out into the room.

Tipping his head to her, he whispered "Thank you."

Just as softly, she sent back a "Well, it's been a while since the last time we all got together. And anyway, I needed witnesses for when I kick Morgan's ass at Guitar Hero."

She shot him a grin and moved into the living room, plucking what he could only assume was "the good guitar" out of Reid's grasp and handing it to his son.

He smiled once more to himself and followed her, and moments later he was surrounded by his family and the deafening chords of classic eighties rock'n'roll.


	15. Desire

Desire

With a job like he has, Derek Morgan is no stranger to death. He's stared it in the face more than a few times, and he's always laughed before walking away.

Or, not laughed and limped away.

In any case, he'd never been trapped by death for more than a few hours.

Now, though, he was feeling those icy fingers creep down his neck to squeeze at his insides, and he was having a hard time finding any way out.

He'd been given a direct order.

He'd failed.

And now he'd have to face the consequences.

Sighing to himself when he realized he had nothing left to do but beg forgiveness, he turned on his heel and made his way back to the black vehicle he'd left waiting outside.

* * *

He'd reached his destination almost six minutes ago. For the life of him, though, he couldn't force himself to make any movement toward his abandoned team.

Couldn't bear to see the fear and disappointment on their faces a second sooner than he absolutely had to.

But the seven minutes he'd now been sitting outside were about five too many for him to waste. They'd notice soon how long he'd been gone, if they haven't already.

They'd worry.

Worry could be, and very often in their line of work is, the final nails in their coffins.

He took another moment to collect himself in the sanctity of his SUV, and wondered briefly if he should slip into a ballistics vest. He dismissed that idea almost immediately, though. He figured if today was his day to die, it was going to happen whether or not he was wearing Bureau-issued blue.

Taking one more deep breath, he slipped out of the vehicle and started his trek into the looming building in front of him.

The rest of his team was already inside.

He'd never in his life been so nervous to join them in the line of fire.

* * *

The metal doors in front of him opened to reveal the space where his team should've been, but they were nowhere to be seen. Taking another careful look around, he though he spotted them in a far room, so he headed that way, every step leaving him feeling as though he were a lamb walking into slaughter.

He trudged up the stairs, his feet slowing almost on their own as he came closer and closer to the last barrier between him and the pearly gates.

He swallowed his anxiety and counted to ten, then pushed the door open and walked inside. The bang of the wood against the doorframe made him jump, and he would've laughed at himself – his shaking hands and trembling knees – but he really didn't find it at all funny.

All of the eyes in the room widened as they recognized the state he was in, all except one pair, that caught his desperate gaze and narrowed in response. Sending a quick prayer up, he set the bag he held on the table and knelt on the ground in front of the one who held his fate in her hands.

"Em, I looked all over, I went to three different grocery stores, one of them was all the way out in Alexandria. None of them had Chunky Monkey."

He cringed as fire blazed in her pools of melted chocolate.

"So help me God, Morgan, if you came back empty handed, I'll – "

Shaking his head before half of her sentence entered the air, he hurried to placate her.

"No, no! I got Rocky Road instead! It's nice and cold, and I even got the good chocolate syrup. See?"

He pulled the pint of ice-cream and liquid chocolate out of the plastic sack with a rustle and handed them over to the nine-and-a-half months pregnant Prentiss and hoped like hell that his promise of the _good_ chocolate would be enough to stem the emotional outburst that he knew was bubbling just below the surface.

God knows they didn't need another blowup like last week's when Reid had gotten her the wrong sandwich.

Or the meltdown when Anderson had eaten the last pack of Famous Amos cookies from the breakroom.

The seconds stretched on and the tension in the room grew, reaching an almost unbearable level before the other dark brunette in the room bent to whisper in her ear.

"C'mon, Sweetheart. Rocky Road is almost as good as Chunky Monkey, especially with the good chocolate syrup."

Her lower lip poked out, and Morgan was sure that if she started to cry, he would be killed where he knelt on the stained industrial carpet of the conference room.

"But I _wanted_ the _other_ one."

"I know, Baby. But Morgan looked all over, and they were all out. He's not a liar."

"He drank the last of my chocolate milk."

At the rate this was going, he might be killed on the carpet anyway.

"I know. I'm sure he's sorry and it'll never happen again. Right?"

He found himself staring into the steely gaze of his Unit Chief and friend, the severity of the glare he was receiving leaving no room for misinterpretation of the answer that he was expected to give.

This time, he did not disappoint.

Shaking his head vigorously, he emphatically replied, "No, sir. Never again."

Husband and wife locked eyes with each other, engaging in a silent conversation that only the two were privy to, before she sighed and passed him the pint of fast-melting ice-cream to open. Stretching a hand against her swollen belly, she gestured for Morgan to rise from the floor. His knees creaked in protest as they were forced to lift him, and he would be sore tomorrow, but the soft smile she graced him with when he chanced a look at her face made it all worth it.

He sent her a wink in answer to her mouthed 'Thank you', and just like that, the world was right again.


	16. Abhorrent

Abhorrent

It was times like these that she hated her job.

Now, when she'd raced after Morgan as he rushed in blind to a gunfight.

Now, when she was staring at another twelve-year-old with another gun that was much too big to be held in his shaking hands.

Now, when Morgan settled his own weapon back in the holster at his waist.

She cursed him and his damn hero-complex under her breath and brought her own Glock up a few centimeters to point more surely at the center mass of the child in front of her.

The scrawny thing couldn't've weighed more than a hundred and ten pounds.

And she was even less happy to find herself in this situation again. She'd thought that the dressing down he'd received from Hotch in Denver would've been more than enough to keep him from making this particular stupid mistake again.

After all, even the bullets from little boy guns were killers.

But Morgan wasn't thinking about that right now. He was thinking about an abused child, a scared kid, and she knew that because she was thinking about it too, but she'd kept her head on straight – a benefit of her infamous tiny boxes – and he had not.

Because if he had, he would've seen how the boy's hands had stopped shaking. He would've noticed how his eyes shifted from scared to something else, how his body tensed with every step Morgan took toward him

He would've seen him change from boy, to man, to killer.

But he didn't see that.

She did, though.

And unlike last time, she had a sinking feeling that not everyone would be going home today.

She tightened her grip on the gun she held and hardened her eyes, even as inside she was screaming, begging, pleading for the twelve-year-old to drop his weapon.

He fired, instead. The bullet was wide and to the left, barreling through the drywall in the kitchen to settle against the wooden beam. His eyes widened, and she couldn't decide if he was surprised that he'd fired the gun or surprised he'd missed. She knew, though, that it was their, _Morgan's, _last chance to get through to him. She chanced a look at her partner.

Morgan hadn't moved, hadn't stopped talking, hadn't even flinched.

And as the boy's eyes turned black and he brought the gun up to fire again, his hands steady, she didn't flinch either.

Ten feet away from her, a small body crumpled to the ground, his chocolate eyes wide open, the gun falling from his small hands and skittering across the linoleum to rest under the table.

She didn't wait to see the growing sea of red spread across the scratched floor, or the shake of Morgan's head when he crawled to the child and confirmed his death.

Anger flooded her and she strode out into the light of day, past Hotch and Rossi, past the SUVs sitting in the driveway, past the police barriers and onlookers and the boy's screaming mother.

She just walked.

And when walking didn't provide the distraction she needed, she ran.

* * *

She found herself in a park as the sun was going down. She heard the last peals of laughter as children were called home and suddenly felt sick. She sank down on the grass and emptied her stomach before turning on her back to look up at the sky. She stayed there until the last hint of red had been replaced with midnight black and all of the stars were visible. Finally, when her skin was covered in goosebumps and the moon had risen high above the tree line, she slowly sat up. Glancing around, she realized she had no idea where she'd run to. She shifted slightly to pull her phone out of her back pocket, but before she could slide the device from its denim confine, she saw headlights flash from the street. Turning her head, she recognized the SUV as Bureau-issued, but she wasn't quite ready to leave the small sliver of peace she'd found on the grass. She lied back down, and a second later heard the door to the vehicle open and then slam shut. The grass rustled as her coworker made his way over to her, and then there was a warm body next to her on the ground and a hand wrapped itself around her own.

The reality of the day washed over her again, and this time she let it. Her grief spilled out of its box and trickled its way down her face, leaving salty trails on her cheeks, and the lump in her throat made it difficult to breathe.

"I killed a kid today."

She whispered her heartbreak into the night, but a kiss on the back of her hand kept her from shattering more than she had already.

"I know."


	17. Imprison

Imprison

He shifted just a fraction of an inch to the left, enough to hide himself more completely behind the oak tree that was serving as his shield.

The goosebumps prickling the back of his neck told him that his subject was close.

He dared to peek one eye out, but saw nothing.

He had to give it to him, the kid was good.

Hearing a rustling to his right, Morgan smiled to himself and moved silently toward the sound.

The kid may be good, but he was better. He drew his weapon and held it in front of him with perfect form, his hands as steady as a rock, his finger just ever so slightly depressing the trigger. He advanced on his target, making sure to keep behind cover, and counted in his head.

_5...4...3...2..._

Before he got to one, the same rustling sounded to his left. He spun to face the new source of the noise, and then he heard it again behind him, then to his right, then left, then right again, and before he knew it, Derek Morgan was spinning in a circle trying to cover all of the directions at once, any advantage he'd once had long gone.

A stifled giggle from behind him, then a shot and a growing wet spot on his back, and the world went black.

* * *

The hood was unceremoniously yanked from his head and suddenly he was face to face with his captors.

"Was the t-shirt over my face really necessary?"

Both heads nodded, one face contorted in barely contained amusement and the other deadly serious.

"It's a _secret_ hideout, Mowgan. If you saw it, it wouldn't be a _secret_."

Emily masked her face to be equally as serious and nodded, "Yeah _Morgan_. It has to be a secret."

She reached out a hand and ruffled the sandy hair of their boss's five-year-old son before straightening and turning her head to listen to the sounds coming from outside the ramshackle shed.

"C'mon, Super-Jack. I hear somebody else."

That same familiar grin stretched across rosy cheeks as Jack reached for her outstretched hand, skipping with her to the door before, seemingly as an afterthought, spinning on his heel to say sternly, "You hafta stay in jail until your team saves you. It's the rules, Mowgan."

A laughing, "Yeah, Morgan. It's the rules," echoed the little boy's assertion and then they were gone, leaving him grumbling in the makeshift jail until someone returned.

He hoped the next person through that door was one of his teammates.

* * *

The next person through the door was, in fact, a member of his team.

Being frog-marched with matching t-shirt and water-gun wound back to where Derek was sitting on the floor.

He cursed to himself before turning to glare at Rossi as the makeshift hood was removed from his head.

"Don't look at me like that!" the Italian man spat.

"I am an old man. Too old to be playing War! I've been to war, the real war! And besides, you were caught first, and there's not a mark on you!"

"The hell you talking about, not a mark on me. They shot me in the back, Rossi! I never even saw them coming!"

"You're a trained FBI agent, Derek. You should be able to outwit a five-year-old!"

"He's not just any five-year-old, he's Hotch's. The kid probably practices SWAT moves on his teddy bears! And besides, he's got Emily helping him!"

The older profiler snapped his mouth shut and half nodded, conceding that Morgan had a point. Neither of them had noticed their captors sneaking back out the door until a third person was dragged through it.

"I am perfectly capable of walking to your holding facility, Emily. There is no need for you to manhandle me!"

"Oh come on, Aaron. Get into the spirit of things, it's just a little harmless fun!"

"I'M BLEEDING, EMILY!"

The dark-haired profiler swept her loose curls over her shoulder and cringed.

"I said I was sorry. I really didn't mean to walk you into that tree."

The unit chief's annoyance melted away and he drew his girlfriend into his arms.

"I know, sweetheart. I was just being a little –" he paused for a moment, searching for the right word to placate the woman in his arms.

"Grumpy?"

Both pairs of eyes swiveled to the little boy at their feet, and Emily snickered as she hauled him up to rest on her hip. Hotch sighed and let his head fall against his chest, knowing that any protestations he made now were going to fall on deaf ears, so he chose to ignore the comment made and turned instead to see two of his four teammates leaning against the wall of the shed from their places on the floor, a smirk on one face and a scowl on the other.

He raised one dark eyebrow at them and remarked drily, "You two mean to tell me that Kevin and Reid are now the only players left for our team?"

Sour looks settled on their faces and he sunk to the floor between them, just in time to hear Morgan's "This is unbelievable. We might as well just give up now."

Seeing their captors plotting by the door, Hotch lowered his voice.

"Not just yet. Garcia and JJ are both out, too. We still have a shot."

"Oh c'mon Hotch, it's Reid and Kevin we're talking about here! Reid has to practice for weeks to make seven shots out of ten to get recertified, and I'm pretty sure Kevin's never even seen a gun, let alone held one! We're screwed!"

The click of the door pulled them from their debate, and the three men looked up to find themselves alone once again in the shed in the woods.

"You know, if this was a movie, this would be the part where all the shit starts to go down."

* * *

A high-pitched scream fifteen minutes later set every fiber of Hotch's being on edge – it sounded too much like Jack to be a coincidence, and he knew from the sudden absence of grumbling from the men on either side of him that they were thinking the same.

And when a second scream sounded just a moment later, he was out the door and crashing through the woods without a second's thought, Dave and Morgan hot on his heels. The three agents burst into a clearing, their gasping breaths drawing the attention of all four of the people in front of them, and for a moment, they were enveloped in a stunned silence as each of them paused to try to make sense of these most recent events.

Then, "Daddy, you hafta stay in jail until your team saves you. It's the rules!"

He turned a bewildered stare to his son and took in his wide-legged stance, his little fists curled at his sides and a glare to rival his own planted on his face, and felt a weight lift off of his shoulders at seeing him physically fine.

He wasn't sure he'd ever seen him that angry, though.

Amusement danced in the lone woman's eyes as she turned to face her young charge, shooting a smirk over the boy's shoulder to her partner and a wink to her boyfriend, and he knew, KNEW, that she was about to embark on one of her favorite pastimes.

She called it a Quantico Quibble.

He called it a headache.

"It's ok, Jack. We won anyways."

Morgan stepped forward from his place behind Hotch, and the Unit Chief prepared himself for what was sure to follow.

"Girl, you can get that idea right outta your pretty head. If anything, _we_ won by default."

"You did not! We beat you fair and square, didn't we Jack."

At hearing his name, the small boy was drawn away from the tantrum he was nearing, and he moved to where his father's girlfriend was standing with her arms crossed to stare up at the tall agent whose annoyance was growing by the minute, nodding his head so vigorously Hotch was a little worried he'd give himself a concussion.

He rolled his eyes as his son chimed in, "Yeah, Mowgan, we won _fair and square_."

Morgan remained unmoved by the five-year-old's insistence, choosing instead to focus his attention on the woman currently failing to hide her amusement.

"Cheating _and_ lying, Princess? Really, what are you teaching him?"

Emily's temper flared and her eyes hardened, the retort flying from her mouth before she had a chance to censor herself.

"We didn't cheat, Morgan."

She took a step to decrease the distance between them, and Hotch took that opportunity to sweep Jack into his arms, the little boy's attention so focused on the adults arguing like children in front of him that he hardly noticed his change in position.

"Again with the lying."

Morgan mirrored her step, bringing them nose to nose, neither willing to back down.

"We _didn't _cheat, Morgan!"

"What would you call it then? Because you sure as hell didn't win!"

"We did so win! We shot all of you fair and square!"

Her index finger jabbed her opponent in the ribs, punctuating her point, and Hotch could see the escalation coming from a mile away. Handing Jack to Reid, he sent the three youngest onlookers to rejoin the girls – he had a feeling that things were about to take an ugly turn, and he didn't really want any more witnesses than were strictly necessary. To that end, he turned to Rossi with the intention of sending him away as well, but his old friend just rolled his eyes and shook his head. Before he could say anything, they were drawn back into the brawl brewing in front of them.

"YOU CHEATED!"

"WE DID NOT!"

"DID SO!"

"DID NOT!"

"YOU USED JACK TO LURE THEM HERE!"

"THAT'S NOT CHEATING, THAT'S USING YOUR RESOURCES!"

"IT DOESN'T COUNT!"

"IT DOES SO, WE SHOT ALL OF YOU FAIR AND SQUARE!"

"YOU CHEATED!"

A shrill whistle sounded then, stopping both agents in their tracks before this new round of bickering brought them to blows.

"Enough! Call it a tie and move on."

"But Hotch –"

"Morgan, I said drop it. Now, it's almost dinnertime and I know I'm hungry, so let's rejoin the group and go for pizza."

He shot each of them a glare, standing his ground until Morgan sighed and turned to start walking back out of the forest, Rossi following closely behind, no doubt "poking the bear", so to speak. Hotch shook his head and reached out a hand towards his girlfriend, tugging her closer to him and slinging his arm around her shoulders as they began their own trek back to the group. She sighed contentedly against his chest, and he pressed a kiss to her temple, taking a moment to enjoy the walk before a smirk stretched across his face. Tilting his head closer to her, he murmured, "Well, I guess we know where Jack learned that little Candyland stunt he pulled last week."

"WE DIDN'T CHEAT!"


	18. Parent

Parent

It is sometime after late night has ticked over to early morning, when the world is still dark and quiet and she is naked and wrapped around him in their bed, his fingers trailing nonsense patterns on the smooth skin of her back and leaving goosebumps in their wake. She presses a kiss to his shoulder where her head is lying and shifts infinitesimally closer, and the movement makes him smile.

He falls asleep smelling cinnamon and vanilla, and wakes again a few short hours later to chocolate eyes and a pout he wants to kiss away, so he does, and then he does it again, and again, and when he pushes her back onto the mattress and covers her body with his own, the laugh that escapes from her lips fills him with a warmth that is different than the heat pooling low in his stomach and he wants to catch it, to seize this moment and keep it for the rest of his days, so he presses another kiss to her lips and captures the tail end of her laugh, and then he joins them together and everything is beautiful. It is dark, and everything is on fire, and cinnamon and vanilla is swirling all around him, and he thinks that this must be what love is like, what it is supposed to be, not sweet and safe, like it was with Haley, but burning and all-consuming.

And after, when they have both caught their breaths and he has tugged her back against his chest, he ghosts his fingers over her stomach and drifts back into sleep, knowing that he'll dream of her tonight.

* * *

It is sometime after summer has given way to fall, when the world is blanketed in oranges and reds and she is chasing Jack around the park they've walked to, his son's happy squeals ringing through the crisp air as she catches up with him and spins him around. She hoists the almost-five-year-old up on her hip and carries him back to his father, and in that moment he knows, and the knowing brings a rare, two-dimpled smile to his face.

He takes the small boy from her and tugs her by the hand down onto the blanket he is sitting on, his smile softening as she leans into his side. She is still chattering to Jack from where he is cuddled into his father's chest, and he should be impressed by her vast knowledge of the Muppets, and he would be, really, but he is much too distracted by the way her (his) Rolling Stones t-shirt is riding up on her hips, exposing the creamy flesh of her midsection where he _knows_ their future is housed, and then the ice-cream jingle is sounding and she and Jack both jump up, and he is laughing as he watches them race to get their frozen treats, picturing a third running with them.

And after, when they have returned and he steals a lick of her ice-cream amid her protests and his son's giggles, he trails his fingers just above the waistband of her jeans and smiles as her muscles ripple beneath his touch, and he knows that he'll dream of her tonight, too.

* * *

It is sometime after the blue line has shown on the stick in her hand, when the world is only him and her, and she is silent and unmoving, her tension evident in her tight shoulders and straight back and the way she refuses to look him in the eye. He can read her like a book, can see the hesitation masking the joy in the way she breathes and knows that she is only unsure because they haven't talked about having children, but then, she doesn't know what he knows.

She should, though.

And because she hasn't looked up yet, she hasn't seen the face-splitting, ear-to-ear grin that is stretched across his lips, and that needs to change, too.

Gently, so gently, he reaches a hand to cup her jaw, tilting her face until her eyes are locked on his own, and she can see the unadulterated love in his and she feels all of her worries melt away, and the kiss they share is echoed all the way to her toes before he is pulling her up the bed to lay with him.

"It's going to be a girl."

She laughs.

"Aaron, we found out I'm pregnant three minutes ago."

He smiles at her teasing and gives her another kiss, quick and sweet.

"It's going to be a girl."

"There's no way you can know that."

"I can. I'm the one who decides."

The twinkle in her eye warns him that he's playing with fire, and they've played this game enough times for him to know that if he continues on his current path, it's likely he'll be burned.

He continues anyway.

"You don't have any conscious choice, you big goof! You don't know any better than I do if it's going to be a girl or a boy!"

"Yes I do. It's going to be a girl." He rolls her underneath him and smirks when she shudders.

"Why are you so sure?"

His smirk softens into a smile she hasn't ever seen before, and she is intrigued by the change. He falls to the side and pulls her flush against him, sweeping her hair behind her ear so he can see her face.

"I've dreamed her, Emily. Probably a thousand times, since I was twenty-three. I knew her before I met you. And she's beautiful, Em. The prettiest girl I've ever seen." He pauses to press a kiss against her temple. "She has dark curls and eyes the color of chocolate. She has perfect little rosebud lips and delicate fingers, the Hotchner dimples and your cheekbones and a little button nose."

The picture he is painting of their daughter is vivid, and she can almost see her.

"What else?"

"She's afraid of thunder, and spiders, and the dark. Her laugh is infectious. She loves history, and she likes to read mystery novels. She's smart, so smart, like her mother. And stubborn, and proud, and passionate, and kind." He punctuates each of those points with a peck to her lips.

"Her favorite color is butter yellow…"

"Butter yellow?" Her teasing tone is back, but his soft smile remains.

"Yeah. It reminds her of duckies, and sugar cookies, and sunshine. She likes daisies, because they're easy to make into crowns, and lilacs, because they smell pretty. She prefers strawberry ice-cream, and you joke that no daughter of yours is going to prefer fruit to chocolate, and I say 'At least we only have to buy one carton to keep us all happy', and for the rest of our days there's always Neapolitan ice-cream in the freezer, vanilla for me, chocolate for you and Jack, and strawberry for our girl."

She smiles at that, because she _was_ about to speak those words.

"She's the first girl that Morgan falls in love with, and he falls hard. She always dresses up with Reid to go to Comic Con, and JJ and Garcia spoil her rotten because she's the only girl, and she's Dave's favorite because she's the only one of the kids who appreciates his cooking. Jack will teach her to talk, and walk, and climb trees, and land on her feet after jumping mid-swing on the swing set. They'll twirl around, and around, and around in the backyard until they collapse in a heap on the grass, laughing until tears fall down their faces. She loves the ocean, like Jack does, so we'll go every chance we get, and they'll work together to build the biggest sandcastles, so big they can't reach to put the flag on the top, and we'll stay on the beach until the waves swallow their hard work."

He pauses, closing his eyes, and she takes a moment to memorize his face while he thinks of a dream he's held for so long.

"I'm going to teach her to ride a bike, and you're going to teach her to speak every language you know, and she's going to love it so much she's going to learn a few more, too. She'll cry when we drop her off at kindergarten, and Jack will hold her hand all the way to her classroom, and he'll brush the tears from her cheeks and kiss her head, and he'll tell her that she's going to have the best time, and that he'll see her at lunch. And I'll nobly hold myself together until we reach the car, and then I'll cry too, and you'll roll your eyes and tell me that she's going to be fine, but later you'll pretend not to notice when I slip out to check on her and Jack at lunch."

Her own tears were gathering at the corners of her eyes, and the gruffness of his voice told her that he was holding his own back as well.

"She's going to fight with us about the dumbest things, Em, and she's going to break our hearts a million times, but it's going to be perfect. She's going to be perfect, because she's ours." A few of his tears slip down his face, and she kisses them away.

"You sound like you know everything about her already."

"I've dreamed her for twenty-five years, Em. A quarter of a century. More than half of my lifetime, I've waited to meet her."

"What if this baby is a boy?"

He leans down to press a kiss just below her navel and she giggles when his breath tickles her skin.

"It's going to be a girl."

Another kiss, and his lips linger.

"All I need to know is her name."

She looks at him in amused surprise, then, and pulls him up to rest beside her before pillowing her head on his chest.

"All this time and you don't know her name?"

"I know that her mother gives it to her. So, what's her name?"

She thinks for a moment, and then she knows.

"Anna Claire. Named first for herself and second for your grandmother."

He chuckles, a low sound that sends tingles racing through her, and tips his head to whisper in her ear, "Well, her nickname makes more sense now."

"Nickname?"

"Yeah. Morgan calls her Ace."

It is the last word either of them speaks for some time, and after, when they are tangled together and their hands are intertwined over where their child is growing, he dreams in technicolor of the daughter he can't wait to meet, and wakes with a smile on his face.

* * *

It is sometime after the cherry blossoms have fallen to the ground, when the world is alive with the promise of spring, and he is carrying a little girl with dark curls and chocolate eyes and strawberry ice-cream smeared across her perfect rosebud lips on his shoulders while her mother and brother walk hand-in-hand beside them. She taps a nonsense rhythm on his head and hums a happy tune to herself, and the perfection of it all makes him smile.

"Daddy?"

"Princess?"

"What's your favorite color?"

The answer is easy as it rolls off his tongue – it's been the same since he was a boy.

"Blue, like the ocean." But he's thinking of lines on white sticks instead of waves on white beaches.

"Mommy?"

"Red."

"Jackie?"

"I like green, like summer."

He moves to hold her legs with his left arm and catches the hand that isn't holding his son's in his right hand. She locks eyes with him, noting the knowing look as he asks, "What about you, Annie? What's your favorite color."

"Yellow, like butter."

He suppresses a chuckle, and her mother's eyes narrow for a moment before she looks at her daughter.

"Why butter yellow, Annie?"

"It reminds me of duckies, and sugar cookies, and sunshine."


	19. Aromatic

Aromatic

They are coming home from a brutal interview at a prison in Portland, or they would be, but storms in the Midwest have grounded the plane until morning, and so instead they are in another impersonal hotel room, the only one they could find on such short notice. It is not the first time, and will not be the last, and neither of them bat an eye at the single bed against the wall. His interest is piqued, however, at her sigh of displeasure as she pulls an item from her bag and sniffs it. She throws the article over her shoulder and continues rummaging in her duffel, and it is enough time for him to recognize Morgan's t-shirt. He wonders if perhaps she hadn't had time to do laundry between their last case and heading out for this interview, and he finds himself asking before he can hold the words back.

"No clean laundry?"

She glances at him briefly before turning back to the bag on the floor.

"Oh, um, no. I always do that first when we get back."

He waits to see if she will say anything else, but she busies herself with collecting her toiletries.

Understanding comes to him in a flash as she is juggling pajamas and shower supplies, and he hurries to snag a t-shirt of his own from his bag, pulling navy blue from her shoulder and replacing it with crimson.

"What're you do-"

"I can't make Morgan's shirt smell more like him, but I can offer you one of mine for tonight."

He sees a split second's worth of embarrassment before it is tamped down, and he hurries to continue before she can refuse.

"Please, Emily. We're both going to have nightmares anyway. Let me try to make yours just a little bit easier."

The earnestness in his gaze is too much for her, and she can't find the words to make him take his shirt back. She whispers a "_Thanks, Hotch_" into the space between them and shuts the bathroom door.

It is some time from when he hears the water turn off and when the bathroom door opens again.

"You cannot possibly expect me to wear this."

He looks up from the case file in his lap and smirks at the twinkle in her eye.

"Is there a problem?"

"_Is there a problem?_" she mocks, and he laughs. "No self-respecting Yale alum would be caught dead in this scrap." She gestures to the worn lettering sprawled across the front of the Harvard Law t-shirt covering her from shoulder to mid-thigh, and he has to bite back a smile as he replies.

"Well, Prentiss, I _am_ running out of clean laundry, so as much as it pains me to see it, we're both going to have to accept that _you_, proud Yale alumna that you are, will have to disgrace my dear Harvard for tonight." He gives a mock frown and continues, "I might have to burn it in the morning. Pity, that's a good shirt."

He feels a little lighter with the laugh that erupts from her at that ridiculous utterance, and after she crawls in opposite him and he clicks off the lamp, he can't help but pile on one more line.

"I have to say, Prentiss, Harvard looks good on you."

He considers the rise he gets out of her worth the bruise he'll have in the morning where her elbow connects with his ribs.

She is pulled from the brink of sleep when he whispers to her from his place across the bed.

"Why Morgan?"

It takes her a moment to understand his question, and another to answer.

"He smells…safe."

He doesn't know what to say to that, so he hums wordlessly back to her. The silence stretches before them until it is broken once more, and this question feels much more important when it drifts to her on the current of the air conditioner.

"Is this one just as good as Morgan's?"

The soft smile on her face bleeds into her whisper back to him as she fingers the well-worn fabric draping her.

"Yeah, it's just as good as Morgan's."

And there, in the familiar darkness, wrapped in soft crimson cotton and the scent of him, she sleeps without dreams.


End file.
